We live in the Internet age. Everyone wants clicks. Clicks are

Host: The studio lights buzzed faintly overhead — harsh, white, electric, unforgiving. Rows of monitors blinked across the darkened control room, each one showing a different feed: breaking news, trending clips, viral reactions. The glow painted the walls in shades of digital blue, like the reflection of an ocean made of information instead of water.

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the flickering images — headlines screaming, faces talking, outrage looping on replay. Jeeny stood behind him, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the light of the screens.

Jeeny: (softly) “Trevor Noah once said, ‘We live in the Internet age. Everyone wants clicks. Clicks are what sells.’”
(She tilts her head, studying the monitors.) “He wasn’t just talking about news, was he? He was talking about attention — the new currency of the human soul.”

Jack: (dryly) “And we’re all bankrupt.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Because we spend it faster than we earn it.”

Host: The hum of the machines filled the air, steady and constant — a mechanical heartbeat for a world addicted to noise. A ticker scrolled across the bottom of one screen: TRENDING NOW. Every minute, the topics changed. Every second, someone else’s moment of outrage expired.

Jack: “Clicks are what sells. Not truth. Not empathy. Just clicks. You know what that means, Jeeny? It means outrage has a business model now.”

Jeeny: “So does sadness. So does hope. Everything becomes content eventually.”

Jack: “Yeah. Even grief gets a hashtag.”

Host: He leaned forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The light from the monitors caught the faint exhaustion in his eyes — the look of a man who’d spent too long staring at a world that refreshes faster than it remembers.

Jeeny: “You used to love journalism, didn’t you?”

Jack: “I still do. I just don’t recognize it anymore. It used to be about curiosity. Now it’s about velocity. Whoever screams first wins.”

Jeeny: “And whoever screams last disappears.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The door to the control room swung open briefly; a young assistant stepped in, phone in hand, whispering something about metrics. Jack nodded absently, and the door closed again — sealing them back inside the blue-lit hum of modern civilization’s heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You think we’ll ever slow down?”

Jack: “No. Not until silence trends.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ll never stop running.”

Jack: “We don’t run anymore, Jeeny. We scroll.”

Host: She laughed — a soft, human sound that felt almost rebellious in this mechanical temple of information.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The more connected we get, the lonelier it feels.”

Jack: “That’s because connection isn’t communication. We’ve mistaken reaction for relationship.”

Jeeny: “And headlines for understanding.”

Jack: “And algorithms for gods.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as one of the screens switched to an ad — bright, loud, happy people selling meaning in thirty seconds or less.

Jeeny: “You know, Trevor wasn’t wrong. Clicks are what sells — but what are we buying with them? Distraction? Validation?”

Jack: “Both. We buy distraction because it’s cheaper than meaning.”

Jeeny: “And meaning takes time.”

Jack: “Time we don’t think we have — because the feed keeps moving.”

Host: She walked closer, her reflection appearing beside his in the glass panel of one monitor. Two faces — human, thoughtful, flickering in the glow of a thousand headlines.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what this age will be remembered for?”

Jack: “Speed. Noise. The death of patience.”

Jeeny: “And maybe — the rebirth of awareness. Because eventually, even addicts get tired.”

Jack: “You really believe we’ll wake up?”

Jeeny: “I believe we’ll have to. The mind can only run on adrenaline so long before it craves stillness.”

Host: A video clip rolled on one of the screens — a protest, filmed on a phone, cut into sound bites and captions. Jack watched it silently, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “We turned revolution into entertainment. Pain into performance. The camera doesn’t just record now — it consumes.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s how change survives — in visibility.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Visibility without empathy is voyeurism.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real protest now is refusing to scroll past what hurts.”

Host: The rain began outside — faint at first, tapping against the window like static. The city lights reflected through it, refracted into streams of color. The sound felt ancient compared to the hum of servers around them.

Jack: “Clicks. It’s all about clicks. We measure worth by engagement, truth by reach. Even morality’s on a counter now.”

Jeeny: “And yet, look at us — still talking, still trying to make sense of it. Maybe that’s the light Trevor was pointing to. The fact that, even in a world of noise, some people still choose conversation.”

Jack: “You think words can outlast algorithms?”

Jeeny: “They already have. Stories have survived every empire — even the digital ones.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, soft thunder rolling in the distance. The room felt smaller, warmer — as though the storm outside had pulled the world closer.

Jack: “Sometimes I wonder if this whole thing — the Internet, the feeds, the likes — is just humanity’s way of saying, ‘Please don’t forget me.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all it ever was — a collective cry for witness.”

Jack: “And what if we drown in it?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then someone will still write about it. Someone will still care. Even noise has listeners.”

Host: The power flickered for a moment — the monitors blinking, the hum faltering — before everything steadied again. But in that brief darkness, their faces looked almost relieved, as if the world had taken a breath.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the Internet. Maybe it’s our hunger — to be seen, to matter. The Internet just feeds it faster than we can digest.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Slowness. Depth. Choosing what deserves our attention instead of letting attention choose for us.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible in a world built on refresh buttons?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, we become data pretending to be people.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving the sound of wind brushing against glass. The monitors still glowed, but softer now — like restless stars settling into their orbits.

Jack: (quietly) “Clicks are what sell. But silence — that’s what heals.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to start selling that.”

Host: They sat in the flickering light, two silhouettes against a wall of moving images. Around them, the world continued — trending, refreshing, consuming.

Host: And yet, in that stillness, Trevor Noah’s words took on a deeper echo — not cynicism, but warning, perhaps even faith:

that the Internet age is not defined by its technology,
but by its attention;
that clicks may sell stories,
but listening still saves them;
and that somewhere between noise and silence,
there remains a fragile, human choice —
to see,
to feel,
to remember.

Host: The rain stopped. The lights steadied.

And for a moment,
the screens glowed less like cages
and more like mirrors —
reflecting, faintly,
the possibility
of something real.